


A Childish Interlude

by momomasoch



Category: Glee
Genre: Age Play, Diapers, Dubious Consent, Infantilism, M/M, Masturbation, Plushophilia, Pseudo-Incest, Spanking, Underage Sex, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23793703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momomasoch/pseuds/momomasoch
Summary: They play their own little games of pretend family.
Relationships: Finn Hudson/Kurt Hummel
Kudos: 63





	A Childish Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Just a whole lot of uncommon kinks here.

Kurt has never had a _big_ brother, so when Finn, in all of his bumbling and classic simplicity, carves up pieces of misshapen summer fruits—the pale slices of sweet flesh topped with scarlet skins, cut down the middle to resemble apple-rabbits—he hesitates for how to eat them. 

Finn impales one on a fork, and grins. “Open wide, little brother.”

Kurt’s cheeks bloom in pink patches. “I don’t need you to _feed_ me—”

Finn promptly shoves the morsel into that protesting mouth, with such exuberance, that the cutlery tines scrape Kurt’s trembling tongue, the ripe juices of the apple dripping—

And he swallows it, whole.

* * *

From there, Kurt’s eating habits—as decided by Finn—grow more jejune, regressing each day. Crisp apple slices—replaced by cups of cinnamon-laced apple purée with cream—replaced by apple juice, served in a baby bottle. 

“No. Why do you enjoy doing this? Why do you like humiliating me?” Kurt pushes the bottle away, noting with horror: it is not proportionate to an ordinary infant—but especially sized, just for him.

“I just wanna take care of you, since I couldn’t before.” Finn explains, in earnest and honeyed tones, tinted by a country-warm, syrupy twang. In his varsity jacket, peppermint hues of pale and red, the contrast of pudge and firm athletic muscle, he is all home-grown charm. “Brother to brother. We’re family, right?”

“But—” A series of stutters: “Why the _baby_ things? I can eat just fine—”

“Well, I noticed—you’re so stuffy and severe about your clothes and your lotions and your food and stuff. You won’t eat anything if it comes in a tray.”

“Television dinners aren’t _food_ , Finn. They’re practically plastic, and I grew up eating those, when dad couldn’t cook. I’m tired of them.”

“Yeah, but this is healthy! Apples! Milk! Cow milk, not—not girl milk. Quinn wouldn’t agree to it—a-and I know you wouldn’t like that.” A friendly, cajoling nudge to his sibling’s ribs. “Come on. I won’t give you a T.V. dinner, but you can have one of those fudge brownies with sprinkles.” 

A suffering sigh of surrender. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”

When Burt catches Kurt nibbling at the pink rubber nipple of the bottle, huddled beside Finn on the couch as cartoons squeal on the television, the father takes a step closer towards the son. “You feeling okay, kiddo?” 

“Yeah, it’s fine. He just has a, _uh_ —toothache. The dentist said for him to not have any solids—’cause of the cavity.” Finn interrupts, changing the channel to some football game: broad-shouldered college youths in thick padding and dirt-dusted helmets.

* * *

Finn hits him—spankings, punishments, but to Kurt, it is still violence.

The nostalgic scent of baby powder rising in plumes; the smack of a bare, meaty palm against valentine-pink buttocks; the raw, red markings of fingers afterwards. Kurt sobbing over Finn’s knee, trembling and flaccid, retching and spitting up a milky puddle, from his previous feeding. Afterwards, Finn—blurry from between kaleidoscopic tears—wipes Kurt’s wet cheeks and phlegm-dripping nose.

But the youngest brother snaps at such tenderness: “You’re just like them. All the bullies.”

“Don’t compare me to them, Kurt. I had to do that! You were behaving badly!” 

“—You’re _hard_.” Kurt replies thinly, pulling up his soiled underwear.

* * *

Finn gifts him with stuffed toys. Sugar-bright unicorns with colorful manes, chocolate-dark teddy bears, pastel elephants and dinosaurs. Today, it is another bear: plush fur and glass-gazed and a happy, smiling snout. “Rub on it.”

“Excuse me?” Kurt’s luncheon almost falls to the carpet: crustless squares of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, finished with chocolate pudding, a bib tied around his throat. 

“I think if you jerked off—” Kurt’s withering gaze causes him to falter. “If you masturbated a little—you’d feel better. You wouldn’t be so—”

“Resistant? Dignified? Mature?”

“So _difficult_. I picked this one out, especially. It’s got an open mouth. You can just put it in the hamper when you’re done, so my mom won’t see, and—”

“I am not having your mother wash the bear, because I am not going to touch the bear.” Kurt pronounces in prickling, blackberry-nettled words, the boy’s lips curling, mouth puckering, as if from the sting of summer citrus.

“It’s just a toy. It’s not like it’s a real blowjob. And I want you to.”

With those three sentences, Finn wins the argument. He tells Kurt to withdraw his own penis: strawberry-bright and short, the pubic patch shaved bare, drooping between quivering fingers. To wet his hand with spittle, to make a pocket with his palm, to rub the tender head, to knead the flesh, to stroke down the shaft. Barely a vein to be glimpsed: smooth and slender and artful.

Kurt’s cock does eventually darken to an aching red, puffing and swelling, bobbing in his own hand, muffled moans from his mouth. It’s merely stimulation of the self—until, with more instructions, he presses into the soft cavity of the toy’s toothless mouth: cotton stuffing and velvet interior. Fur encasing the miniature erection, texture without pressure, if not for the tugging of his slippery fingers. The stuffed animal is damp and matted with pre-come—and Kurt is thrusting into its muzzle—and Finn is watching, encouraging, telling him how to do it, how to debauch such an innocent symbol of childhood.

“Come—come on its face.” Finn chokes out, and Kurt does, with a cry—semen spilling, in a pearlescent mask.

For his troubles, Kurt is rewarded with a sticker, pressed to one hot cheek. He tries to peel it off, but Finn takes him by the wrist, only allowing him to scrub at it in the tub, sparkling with soap-suds and summer-yellow rubber ducklings bobbing between his knees.

* * *

When it comes to adulthood, or even the later stages of final adolescence, the youngest brother is best not reaching those stages of development at all. He could be eternally youthful, sweet-hearted, possessing the romantic boyishness of an almost androgynous aesthetic. When Kurt complains of his own shortcomings: his lack of dependence, the strings of his own apron tying him to home, his aches towards older years, Finn assures him, to not be in such a hurry to grow up.

"It won't make you a loser if you stay home for a couple of more years." The same promise, repeated, when Finn packs his sibling's plastic lunch-box with frosted cookies and crumbling crackers—when he buys the first packages of blue-dotted diapers, steadily reversing years of bladder training—when he takes away the school supplies, to make him finish all of the homework assignments in crayon—and Kurt sniffles in protest.


End file.
